Calista Loring / 1832

Man, thou art mortal, born to die,
  This world is not thy home;
Soon with our fathers we must be,
  And moulder in the tomb.

Consider on thy latter end;
  Reflect; thy time is short;
Thy mortal journey soon will end,
  My soul forget it not.

Where are those lofty temples now,
  Which once our fathers built,
To offer up their sacrifice,
  And wash away their guilt?

Our fathers all have found the tomb,
  Their cities have decay'd;
The screech-owl builds her nest upon
  The ruins they have made.

These ancient cities now be waste;
  Their builders are destroy'd;
Serpents and sons claim the ground,
  Which mortals once enjoyed.

O man!  remember thou must leave
  The place which gave thee birth;
Leave all thou hast behind, and go
  The way of all the earth.

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    One weeks [?] extremity may touch us more,
    Than long prosperity had done before;
    Death is forgotten in our easy state,
    But troubles mind us of our friend fate
    The doing ill affects us not with fears,
    But sufering [sic] ill brings sorrow, woe, and tears.